


we're only liars (but we're the best)

by thimble



Category: Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 11:45:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thimble/pseuds/thimble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Frobisher is a rock star, Sixsmith is his tour manager, and certain things stay the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we're only liars (but we're the best)

**Author's Note:**

> Props to anyone who can guess who modern!Frobisher is modelled after. It isn't hard, I promise.
> 
> Written for Ito.

Sixsmith throws open the hotel curtains so that the vivid Singaporean daylight could pour over the room, and over the sleeping form of one Robert Frobisher who, unsurprisingly, does not stir. 

 

Sixsmith makes it a point to not sigh exasperatedly. It gives him a bit of a headache when he does it too often, as is often the case when in Frobisher’s company. He walks over to the bed for a more personal wake up call, shaking Frobisher gently by the shoulder.

 

“Robert,” he says, almost regretfully, because he does look so soft when he’s dreaming – but. They’ve made appointments. “Robert, wake up.”

 

Frobisher scrunches up his face before planting it in the pillow, blocking Sixsmith’s view. “’Tis Corsica.”

 

Sixsmith makes it a point not to snort either. He might inhale the wrong way and choke on his own saliva again, like that one time when he did and Frobisher just laughed at him instead of being helpful by at least attempting the Heimlich or calling an ambulance.

 

He’s not built for spite, really, though that doesn’t mean he can’t tease. “Rob.”

 

“Corsica,” Frobisher insists, the accompanying groan muffled by the down. He rolls away, which only gives Sixsmith space to sit on the bed and rub it in further.

 

“Will you get up or shall I say it.” 

 

“Dare you to.”

 

“Robbie.”

 

Sixsmith catches the pillow thrown at his head as Frobisher curses, flipping onto his back with a hand dramatically covering his eyes from the sun.

 

“You always find such imaginative ways to humiliate me,” he says, quite sincerely, which Sixsmith finds funny because it’s usually the other way around. 

 

“You have a press conference at one o’clock, and a signing at three o’clock. It’s eleven thirty now, we best get a move on things,” Sixsmith says after a quick glance at his watch.

 

“Did I bring Pater with me on this tour? How unwise.”

 

“I ordered room service.”

 

Frobisher perks up considerably at that. “Did you now?”

 

Sixsmith takes the tray, setting it on the bed. “You can have it only when you get up.”

 

Frobisher makes room for a theatrical pause. “If I must.”  He musters what seems like the entirety of his current energy to crawl to the edge of the bed, blinking at the dish on the tray.

 

“That isn’t a proper English breakfast.”

 

“We’re not in England.” 

 

“Such biting wit, did you borrow it from Piers Morgan?” Frobisher shakes his head, mostly to himself. “Noodles for breakfast, honestly…”

 

In a better world, Frobisher would have been born a morning person; in this one, Sixsmith doesn’t feel guilty for enjoying the fact that he isn’t. He’s still grumbling about the noodles, but he likes it, else he would have stopped eating.

 

Not that it matters because five minutes later it all ends up in the toilet. Sixsmith wonders if it’s odd to find someone’s sick noises so endearing.

 

“You shouldn’t have had those last three shots of tequila; it never agrees with you.”

 

“My dear Sixsmith.” Frobisher glares at him, never one to let something as commonplace as vomit stop him from uttering a well-placed retort. “I’ll kill you where you stand.”

 

Sixsmith only smiles, turning on the tap to run him a hot bath.

 

* * *

 

“Absolutely not,” Sixsmith said, hoping his expression conveyed his horror sufficiently. It only made Frobisher that much prouder of himself, based on the self-satisfaction in his eyes, though his one-shouldered shrug might have said otherwise.

 

“It’s already done. See?” He motioned to the computer screen to drive the point home. Frobisher’s typed it out in bright green font and it was blinking.

 

“No. Robert. No.” Sixsmith grabbed for the keyboard, which Frobisher stole out of his reach. “You’re not naming the band _Atlas Shagged_."

 

“Why not? It’s catchy.” 

 

“It’s crude.”

 

Frobisher gave him an almost disappointed look. “You’ve not an ounce of rock n' roll in you, Sixsmith. Not one.”

 

He has such an elegant neck, Frobisher does. For a fleeting moment Sixsmith considered putting his fingers around it to check the fit. “You aren’t actually Keith Richards reincarnated, you do understand that?”

 

“Of course not.” Frobisher tilted his head at him; the effect is the delicate line between insufferable and irresistible. “Keith’s still kicking. Try Sid Vicious.”

 

“How did you even come up with this?” 

 

“Told you about that moronic literature professor who’s forcing Ayn Rand upon all of us, haven’t I? Some eager, misguided fellow on the lookout for recitation points yelled it out when we were asked the title of his most significant work. Class had a good laugh, of course, but I thought it over and yes, yes it makes more sense this way. Atlas shrugging is too neutral, dispassionate; I’d be absolutely furious if I had to carry everyone’s burdens for so long. What better way to get it out of his system than through a good hate fuck with the world?”

 

Sixsmith stared. “You decided to name your band after a wrong answer.”

 

“There are no wrong answers, Sixsmith.” Frobisher conceded a little when Sixsmith began to frown. “Except in your beloved physics, of course. Forgive me. I’m insensitive. I’m excited.”

 

“Did you ask…?”

 

“They’re absolutely peachy. I’m not among the most decisive group of people.”

 

“Change it.” Sixsmith was a second away from adding ‘please.’ 

 

Frobisher grinned, lifting a hand to pat his cheek. “Poor thing, you’re really concerned, aren’t you? Oh, look!” He took his attentions away as swiftly as he gave it. “Two pending requests! What did I say? Everything’s going to be fine.”

 

Sixsmith only had himself to blame. He really should have set up the Myspace himself.

 

* * *

 

“’…noisy, inelegant, and uninspired, akin to the sound of fine china being dropped on a linoleum floor. Grade: D.’”

 

Sixsmith looked over at where Frobisher was lounging on a bean bag. “That was unnecessarily harsh.”

 

“Oh, completely.” Frobisher seemed unbothered, more preoccupied with opening the bag of crisps in his hands. It wasn’t cooperating. “Loved that bit about the fine china.” He froze, gaze fixated at nothing in particular. 

 

Sixsmith braced himself for a tantrum. “Are you all right?”

 

Frobisher brought his eyes back to him, and they were shiny with bad ideas. “Do you know of any china shops nearby?”

 

“We’re not going to terrorize some unfortunate shop keeper because you got a bad review.” Sixsmith started rummaging in the draw for scissors.

 

“We?” 

 

“I meant you. You’re not going to.”

 

“Just a little one? A tiny one. A Thumbelina of a china shop.” Frobisher made an exaggerated show of batting his lashes. Sixsmith snatched the packet from his hands and snipped a neat hole in the corner, handing it back with a sigh.

 

“I’ll buy you a ceramic elephant, for the next time.” Sixsmith would’ve seemed a tad more long-suffering if he wasn’t smiling, really, but his mouth was a traitorous beast. 

 

Frobisher blew him a kiss before stuffing his own mouth with potato chips. "That's why I love you.”

 

* * *

 

It was three am, they're well-past tired, and Sixsmith would have liked very much to just drift off with Frobisher’s arm draped over his waist, but he should have known it wouldn’t end there. 

 

“A tattoo would suit me, don’t you think?” Frobisher’s post-coital voice always went honeyed and low, the only time he ever sounds older. Sixsmith rather liked the way it sticks to his skin like thick syrup. “A tattoo, or two.”

 

Frobisher’s fingers had begun toying with his nipple. Sixsmith batted them away reluctantly. “Of what?” 

 

“An adagio here.” Frobisher pushed him away a little to motion at his own left collarbone. Sixsmith, still reluctantly, turned around to watch. “And an allegro, here.” This time at the right side.

 

Sixsmith reached out to touch the skin there, and trace the hollows where he had bitten marks before. “Whatever for?” 

 

“Instructions for you.” 

 

“I’m not following…”

 

“I’ve become rather tired of saying ‘faster, Sixsmith’ or ‘slower, Sixmith’ whenever I wanted you to change your pace. This way I could just point, it’s all so much more convenient…” 

 

Frobisher giggled in that shrill way of his that delighted Sixsmith whenever he heard it, so he couldn’t quite help from lunging at him, flipping him over so that his back was lined up against Sixsmith’s chest.

 

“What if I had you like this?” Sixmith shifted and pressed against him so that their bodies were slotted together better. “How would you point?”

 

“Sixsmith, you dirty old bird,” Frobisher said, emitting a noise torn between a laugh and a moan. He was the push to Sixsmith’s pull, and damn did he know where to push. “Plan B: a tramp stamp of cattle. A whole herd of them. An entire farm load of them. Udders fat and bursting with milk…”

 

Sixsmith paused.  “Cattle?” 

 

Frobisher nodded, glancing at him over his shoulder. “Yet another dedication to you. All those big cow eyes you make, the way you keep mooning over my arse…”

 

“I don’t moon!"

 

“Not out loud, I would disown you if you did…”

 

The mood was certainly ruined now, not that Sixsmith minded. His stomach was aching from laughing too much. “I ought to muzzle you.”

 

“You don’t even deny it,” Frobisher teased, pushing at him so they could go back to their positions earlier. “Go to sleep; I’ll suck your cock in the morning.”

 

Sixsmith put up no argument; he seldom did.

 

* * *

 

“’Tis a bit funny,” Frobisher said, casual as a devil in hell, while Sixsmith’s got him pinned in the stall of the club bathroom. “Been wanting to fuck you for quite a while, now. Ages, really. Wasn’t sure you’d want me. Thought for sure you’d run away. Had a lot of ideas though. You, bending me over the piano, me, jerking you off in a lecture hall, didn’t matter where, but now…”

 

Sixsmith groaned whilst sucking bruises along the curve of his neck, grabbing Frobisher by the arse to grind their crotches together. “Robert…”

 

“…but now, I don’t really want to.”

 

The phrase had an effect on Sixsmith’s alcohol-addled brain that would have produced similar results by flinging a bucket of ice-cold water at him. He definitely would have preferred the bucket. “You don’t want…?” 

 

“No.” Frobisher gave him an apologetic smile; it seemed genuine too. “Not here, at least. Find that it matters where now, for some bizarre reason. Don’t be too cross at me for luring you here and changing my mind, only just realized this myself…”

 

“Uhhh,” was Sixsmith’s articulate reply. Frobisher merely kept smiling at him, propping him up to stand and brushing imaginary dirt off his shoulders. “Sweet fellow. Let’s move outside, fresh air would be good for you.”

 

Sixsmith nodded, flushed with embarrassment, and followed Frobisher as he always had. Once they were out of the club, Frobisher charmed two cigarettes out of another man equally young and equally drunk as Sixsmith. He stared at Frobisher the same way too, but that sort of thing wasn’t new. 

 

Frobisher came back to him – that was the important part – and stuck one of the cigarettes into his mouth. He moved closer to light both of their cigarettes with the same flame and Sixsmith didn’t, couldn’t move. 

 

It didn’t go unnoticed by Frobisher, who took a drag before speaking, swirls of smoke accompanying his words. “Poor Sixsmith. I’ve done a number on you, haven’t I?”

 

Sixsmith didn’t know what he meant, the cigarette hanging limply from his lips, but his stomach’s turned into a pit of tangled knots and that was never a good sign. 

 

“We’ll do this properly. Take a drive somewhere. Somewhere nice, for a nice bloke like you. The countryside, open skies, open fields, open hearts… too cheesy? I thought so. But you don’t mind, don’t you?” Frobisher shook his head, a self-deprecating little smirk flitting about his face. “You don’t understand a word I’ve just said. I’ll repeat this in the morning.”

 

He plucked Sixsmith from the lamppost that he had been leaning against, sliding an arm around his waist to hold him up instead. “Let old Robert Frobisher walk you home, it’s the least he can do.”

 

Sixsmith didn’t speak until Frobisher was tucking him into bed, pulling the sheet up to his chin. “You’re not old. I’m older than you.” 

 

Frobisher chuckled, and Sixsmith was glad to have caused it. “Don’t I know it.”

 

* * *

 

Sixsmith doesn't pretend that it isn't a relief to be buried in Frobisher again, even if they just did this same thing last night and almost every night before, even if there was hoard of fans and paparazzi alike waiting just right outside with only a locked door acting as a barricade between them.

 

Then Frobisher moves his hips just so, and it goes from relief to straight up beauty, like a lightning strike, a volcanic eruption...

 

"You're making that face again, Sixsmith," Frobisher says, grinning filthy and easy like he hasn't got a cock up his arse, his hands braced on Sixmith's shoulders for balance.

 

Sixsmith groans and only manages a questioning look.

 

"So I was right! You know the face, that ridiculous face of yours when you're waxing poetic in your head about my eyes or my hands, I just know it..."

 

Frobisher squeaks when Sixsmith thrusts up roughly. The couch they're occupying gives him an answering squeak, and for the ten minutes they've afforded themselves it was the only sound in the room. Sex is quite possibly the only time Frobisher doesn't correct him to say 'Corsica' instead, and coincidentally also the only time he shuts up of his own accord.

 

When they finish, the next sound Frobisher makes is the smack of a wet kiss against Sixsmith's lips. He then hops off and pulls the condom from Sixsmith himself. 

 

"Where are you going with that?" Sixsmith asks as Frobisher walks around with his magnificent arse exposed to the air, rubber in hand.

 

"To the bin," Frobisher says as he drops it in unceremoniously. Sixsmith rubs a palm over his face in a long-suffering fashion. 

 

"You could use a little discretion. Wrap it in a tissue, perhaps, or flush it down the..."

 

"And waste an opportunity for fresh rumours? Preposterous! I'd earn at least one headline for this..."

 

Sixsmith shakes his head, quite accustomed to being ignored. He tucks himself back in and starts pulling up his zipper before Frobisher's hands interrupt to do it for him.

 

"Don't you worry now. I'm fairly certain they won't check for DNA..." Frobisher laughs, noticing his visible frown, and leans in for a kiss. Sixsmith returns it maybe a bit too harshly, but Frobisher doesn't mind.

 

"Cheer up. See, we still have three minutes. How's about you work on this some more?" He lifts the corner of his shirt to reveal the patch of bruised skin at his hip. It's been bruised for quite a while now; whenever it begins to fade Sixsmith puts his teeth to good use.

 

Sixsmith's gums itch just staring at it, and his mind churns out a million metaphors a minute. Frobisher smirks like a man who's well aware of the effect he has on people - on Sixsmith especially - and beckons at him with a finger.

 

Just one.

 

* * *

 

Eva Crommelynck had black hair, brown eyes, spoke fluent French and was in possession of a plush dark red mouth that seems carved in a permanent pout. Frobisher was desperately smitten.

 

"Quick, Sixsmith, deliver this to her." Frobisher slipped a Post-It note into Sixmith's pocket, no doubt another love note littered with French phrases that Frobisher picked up during their European tour. Eva hadn't been impressed the first few times, but that did nothing to squash Frobisher's persistence.

 

"She told you to stay away from her," Sixsmith said, and wished he could ignite the note in his pocket solely with the power of thought. 

 

Frobisher practically swooned as he watched her exit the building. "Yes, she did. With a desperate fondness. Alas, our paths have yet to cross without that shrivelled gourd Vyvyan keeping watch." 

 

"You slept with his wife, Robert." 

 

"Jocasta was a lovely woman, even you can't deny that..."

 

"And you're signed to his company for another three years. Your creative freedom is limited as it is."

 

"Are you quite near the point you're approaching, or...?"

 

"Behave," Sixsmith all but hissed. "You'd do us all a favour by staying away from the dragon's daughter."

 

"The dragon?" Frobisher's laugh had a mocking tone. "You're being dramatic again, old boy. And ah, here comes the syphillis-riddled reptile, about to breathe fire over us..."

 

Frobisher hated label meetings as much as Sixsmith did, Sixsmith was sure, but his demeanour said otherwise. Even Vyvyan Ayrs - who would've put a bounty on Frobisher's head if he hadn't been the label's most profitable artist - seemed positively charmed. 

 

* * *

 

"Your publicist is in the hospital. Mild cardiac arrest, she'll be fine, but..."

 

"Is that the fifth one now?"

 

"Sixth."

 

"Oh, of course, there was that fellow who lasted two days because his blood sugar..."

 

"...had dropped dangerously low."

 

"Well, that one was hardly my fault."

 

"He handled the Malaysian incident. The one that had you banned from stepping foot in the country for the next twenty years."

 

"Insurance covered it and he was well-paid for his service, wasn't he?"

 

"Robert, you've rendered not one, not two, not three, but six of your publicists in a state that required immediate medical care." Frobisher's expression remained impassive. Sixsmith sank further in his seat. 

 

"But this might be your worst stunt yet."

 

Frobisher, to his credit, seemed to absorb some of the situation's gravity at last. He sat next to Sixsmith and worried his lip.

 

"It's not that bad, is it?"

 

"Your cock is all over the internet." Sixsmith pointed to the laptop on the table, which still beeped periodically with Google alerts. "It is, quite assuredly, That Bad."

 

Frobisher was quiet for a blessed heartbeat. "It's a flattering angle..."

 

Sixsmith could have strangled him then and there. "Do you remember who you sent them to?" 

 

"Here." Frobisher responded by handing him his Sidekick. The one he used for groupies and acquaintances. Sixsmith scrolled through the contact list and valiantly attempted to keep his dinner where it belonged.

 

"Who am I looking for?"

 

"Everyone."

 

"You sent pictures of your cock to everyone in this phone."

 

"Only the ones I've slept with. Could be everyone, don't look at me like that, after parties can get quite out of hand..."

 

The next thing Sixsmith remembered was Frobisher's anxious face peering at him, fanning him with an album booklet.

 

"Your eyes rolled back into your head. I've only seen that in movies, Sixsmith..." Frobisher was giggling, the infinite gall of him. 

 

"Did I faint?"

 

"For about ten seconds. I suppose that would make you my seventh victim."

 

Sixsmith closed his eyes again, berating his younger self for ever taking an interest in that ten-year-old boy in Gresham's that pelted the back of his head with chalk and refused to call him 'Rufus.' That little boy had smiled like a criminal, and Frobisher was wearing the same smile now, his wicked fingers teasing Sixsmith's belt. 

 

"Fret not, I'll make it better, Sixsmith. Would you let me?" 

 

"Y-yes..."

 

Frobisher always did have a talented tongue. Sixsmith thought back to Gresham's again and all the knots he made of cherry stems, how he laughed and refused to show Sixsmith how he did it. When he was done he curled up into Sixsmith's side like a cat, spoiled with the knowledge that he would always be forgiven. It wasn't far from the truth.

 

"It will blow over in a week, I'm sure of it." Frobisher yawned, his hand still under Sixsmith's shirt from where it had been groping him earlier. "The internet has done wonders for this generation's attention span by drastically reducing it. My poor cock will be old news come next Tuesday."

 

"American Christian extremists would picket your funeral."

 

"Then it's a shame I'll have to be buried in England."

 

* * *

 

To Sixsmith's horror and Frobisher's utter glee, Eva was tickled pink by the controversy.

 

"'Corsica's Comet!' They've become rather clever now, Sixsmith. I never thought celestial bodies could sound so vulgar. E. said I ought to pay all these reporters for the wonderful press." Frobisher said all this without looking up from his phone, busy as ever with the Crommelnyck heir. It laid down a pattern for the months to come.

 

"E. said I ought to wear more red. Do you agree? Oh, why am I asking you, my dearest duke of tweed. Tell my wardrobe team to find me a red leather jacket. They still make those, don't they?" 

 

"E. called. Said she saw last night's show on Youtube. Told me that she hated the way I flirted with the microphone stand. Asked her if it made her jealous. She hung up on me, a most telling admission of guilt if there ever was one, wouldn't you say?"

 

"Sent E. a sample of the new song. Said I might actually deserve all my success with this one. She has no ear for music, but she is quite the businesswoman. Foolish of me to do so, but I trust her..."

 

"I think I'm mad, Sixsmith. I'm in love. Aren't they the same thing? E. said she had an announcement to make, that I only had to wait a little longer. Can it be...?"

 

* * *

 

"Let me in, Robert."

 

"I'm working! Kindly fuck off." Sixsmith heard what he suspected were drumsticks flung at the door. "And call me Corsica."

 

It had been almost a month since Eva Crommelnyck's shock engagement with a solo artist from her father's label. It was quite the scandal and all the tabloids were raving about it, predictably. (Also true to prediction, Frobisher's nude pictures were filed away in an archive, now just another pop culture event to reference to).

 

Frobisher broke his own heart at least once a year over a pretty young thing he couldn't have - or did have, and gotten bored with - and Sixsmith had been privy to each of them. All except this one, because it happened in private emails and phone calls that Sixsmith could only piece together from what Frobisher chose to disclose. That alone made it unique, and so was the way Frobisher was handling it. He didn't sleep with anyone after shows, he didn't drag Sixsmith off for impromptu blowjobs in supply closets, didn't try to run away to another continent. Not even for a week.

 

He simply locked himself in his studio working on what he calls his magnum opus. A concept album. He was writing all the instrument parts, the lyrics, the goddamn harmonies. Sixsmith was a bit afraid he'd gone insane.

 

It takes two more months before Frobisher willingly speaks to him again. He had been on his way to congratulate his brother and sister-in-law for the baby on the way when his phone breaks out into _Ode To Joy_ : Frobisher's personal ringtone.

 

"It's done," Frobisher told him, hanging up. Sixsmith turned his car around.

 

He found Frobisher on the balcony of his flat, already on this third cigarette. It was a horrific habit for a singer, but Sixsmith saves the reprimand for later, opting for silence as he sat in the space beside him.

 

"Don't know what came over me, but it's brilliant. I'll go down in history as the greatest songwriter of my generation." Frobisher tapped ash into the street below, smoke billowing from his lips. There was no trace of conceit in him, nothing but certainty. 

 

Sixsmith believed him, as he did without fault when it mattered. Frobisher seemed to feel it, the way he turned his head and smiled. He looked tired and soft, and Sixsmith had to kiss him if he ever wanted to breathe again. 

 

"Can't wait for you to hear it," Frobisher said, which Sixsmith stole out of his mouth, along with every other word that followed.

 

Their sex that night was frenzied, built on the months of its absence. Sixsmith still felt the burn of Frobisher entering him as he formulated his thoughts afterwards.

 

"I'll round up the band so you can start recording next week." 

 

"My faithful agent." Frobisher pressed his lips to his nape, an arm draped over his waist. "Sixsmith, you're terrific."

 

Sixsmith had no ounce of musicality in him either, but he could've sworn an entire orchestra swelled in him at that moment. For the first time in a long time, it seems, all was well.

 

* * *

 

There was a piece of paper in Sixsmith's front pocket, and it seemed to be made of hot coal. It wasn't a Post It, but it was a note. A suicide note, in fact.

 

_Sixsmith,_

_Swallowed what's left in my prescription bottle this morning. Two thirds of its contents and a full Smirnoff ought to have done the trick. But I saw you, you old bird. On your way to your morning coffee, half a minute before I meant to put this in your mailbox. I'd tell you to do me a favour and throw out that awful fedora, but I've grown rather fond of it._

_Don't let me catch you blaming yourself._

 

The rest had been left unread as Sixsmith sped to Frobisher's flat, bursting the front door with ease. It hadn't been locked after all, though the same can't be said for the bathroom.

 

"Robert!" He slammed a fist against it, could still hear him breathing inside. "Please!"

 

No reply. It took him three precious minutes to break that door down, and the sight that greeted him was Frobisher in the bathtub, delirious and fully clothed, two empty bottles at his feet. 

 

"If I could only share this brightness," he said, before Sixsmith cut him off with four fingers jammed down his throat, reaching as far as they could go. When Frobisher gagged and the acrid smell of vomit pierced the air, Sixsmith finally allowed himself to cry.

 

The pills twined with piss in the toilet. Frobisher was sick all over his and Sixsmith's clothes when an ambulance came to take him away. Sixsmith was left alone and his sobs seemed louder without Frobisher's retching noises to join them. 

 

He refused to read the entirety of the letter. It would mean acknowledging the existence of a reality where he failed and Frobisher succeeded, an incarnation of him that couldn't save his first love, and his last.

 

* * *

 

"Sixsmith, you ass." Frobisher hisses as he stabs himself in the eye with a liner pencil. Sixsmith laughs and does not feel the least bit sorry for bumping into him.

 

"You were told to do that earlier, but you chose to linger on that redhead." 

 

"A worthwhile endeavour! She writes for Rolling Stone and she will most definitely put in a good word. You should thank me." 

 

Sixsmith walks over and flips Frobisher to face him. He takes the liner and is careful to apply it, thick and black underneath the waterline to make his eyes pop. 

 

"Thank you," he says, looking directly at Frobisher when he was done. Frobisher's answering gaze was curious, amused.

 

"You're remarkably affectionate today."

 

"I was remembering some things." 

 

Frobisher grins, exaggerated by the makeup. "Ah, yes. You've a face for that too."

 

He had been grinning in the hospital too, paler than he usually was, stomach freshly pumped. 

 

"Christ. Don't let them say I did this for Eva. The woman couldn't tell a C from a D."

 

"I'll have to tell them something," Sixsmith had insisted, eyes still stinging from his tears. You'll have to tell me something, he hadn't said out loud, but Frobisher had heard him. Had been merciful, a miracle in itself.

 

He had sighed, staring mournfully at the IV drip like he wanted to topple it, just to see what would happen. "Wish you would've let me be music. I can't top this one, Sixsmith. It's too fantastic. In five years they'd call me redundant, a hack."

 

Sixsmith hadn't understood. "Better redundant than dead."

 

"Knew you'd think so. You've a scientific mind and you've laid it to waste, following me around. Suppose that makes you quite the idiot."

 

Better an idiot than one bereft of you. "Suppose it does."

 

They never spoke of it again. Frobisher never promised he wouldn't repeat it, and Sixsmith never asked him to. 

 

Outside, the crowd is chanting his name. C-O-R-S-I-C-A. CORSICA! Under whose stars they first kissed. Frobisher tells a different story about the alter ego's humble beginnings every time, but never the truth. 

 

That would be far too sentimental.

 

"Angels are weeping in heaven, Sixsmith." Frobisher's arms are outstretched, a practiced gesture he replicates whenever he goes up onstage. "Pretentious, perhaps, but..."

 

"Pretension is your middle name," Sixsmith supplies, and steps back to watch his friend transform.

 

"Yes it is," Frobisher says. He even winks, the bastard. "And Robert's the first."


End file.
